Chapter 3

Clarissa dragged Maya out of the club doors.

A blast of freezing night air hit her face. She shivered violently, her thin dress offering no protection against the Manhattan wind.

She dragged Maya to the curb. She raised her free arm, waving frantically at the street.

"Taxi! Please!" she yelled.

A yellow cab slowed down. The driver looked at Maya, who was currently bent over, gagging dryly toward the gutter. The driver immediately hit the gas and sped away.

Two more empty cabs did the exact same thing.

Clarissa's chest tightened. She felt like she couldn't breathe. Hot tears of frustration pricked her eyes.

Finally, a beat-up Ford taxi screeched to a halt in front of them.

Clarissa practically shoved Maya into the backseat. She dove in after her, slamming the door shut.

"Brooklyn. Please, hurry," Clarissa gasped out the address.

The taxi jerked forward, merging into the heavy traffic.

Clarissa looked down at her wrist. The second hand swept past the twelve.

It was exactly eleven o'clock.

Her stomach dropped. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.

The taxi hit the Brooklyn Bridge and stopped dead. A sea of red taillights stretched out for miles in front of them.

Clarissa leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. She watched the minutes tick by. Eleven-ten. Eleven-twenty. Eleven-thirty.

With every minute that passed, the knot of terror in her stomach pulled tighter.

At eleven forty-five, the taxi finally pulled up to Maya's apartment building.

Clarissa threw a hundred-dollar bill at the driver. She hauled Maya out of the car, dragged her into the dingy elevator, and practically carried her into her bedroom.

She dropped Maya onto the bed. She didn't even stop to take a breath or grab a glass of water.

Clarissa spun around and sprinted out of the apartment. She ran down the street until she flagged down another cab heading back to Manhattan.

The traffic on the way back was lighter, but it didn't matter. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like a bird trapped in her ribcage.

At twelve fifteen, the cab pulled up to the curb on the Upper East Side.

Clarissa stared up at the massive, ultra-luxury skyscraper. It looked like a fortress.

She pushed the car door open and walked toward the heavy brass and bulletproof glass doors.

The night doorman opened the door for her. He gave a polite bow, but Clarissa saw the look in his eyes. It was pity. Pure, unadulterated pity.

She swallowed hard. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

She walked across the massive, empty marble lobby. She reached the private elevator reserved only for the penthouse.

She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The scanner beeped green. The doors slid open silently.

She stepped inside and pressed the button for the top floor.

The elevator shot upward at a sickening speed. The sudden loss of gravity made her stomach churn. The terror peaked, freezing the blood in her veins.

With a soft ding, the elevator stopped. The doors slowly opened directly into the penthouse foyer.

The apartment was pitch black.

The only light came from the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting cold, silver shadows of the Manhattan skyline across the cashmere rugs.

Clarissa held her breath. She slipped her high heels off her feet.

She stepped onto the soft rug in her bare feet. She prayed to God that Giovanny was already asleep.

She took three silent steps into the living room.

Suddenly, a dim, yellow reading lamp clicked on in the far corner of the room.

Clarissa gasped, sucking in a sharp breath. Her entire body locked up.

At the edge of the light, Giovanny sat in a custom Italian leather armchair.

He had taken off his suit jacket. His tie was pulled loose, hanging around his neck. The top three buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone, exposing his collarbone. He looked relaxed. Deadly.

He held a glass of bourbon. He swirled the liquid. The ice cubes clinked against the crystal. The sound was deafening in the quiet room.

He didn't look at her. He just stared at the amber liquid.

His voice cut through the silence. Low. Cruel.

"Twelve seventeen," Giovanny said. "You are seventy-seven minutes late."

Clarissa swallowed the lump of fear in her throat. She opened her mouth, desperately searching for the right words to save herself.

Giovanny slowly lifted his head.

His eyes locked onto hers. In the dim light, his gaze was colder than the ice in his glass. He looked at her exactly the way a wolf looks at a lamb.